Holm, Stef Ann Read Free

weren't for bad fielding, we could have won."
    Her
gaze darted to her father, and she held her breath. These days, there were two
subjects you didn't bring up with him: baseball and Ned Butler.
    Daddy's
hardware store owned and had sponsored the local baseball team for ten years.
Kennison's Keystones had never caused any fanfare on the field. But since
they'd been accepted for membership into the American League this year, her
father had high hopes for the officially renamed Harmony Keystones.
    Only
those hopes had been diagnosed with a bad case of eczema. Dr. Porter said that
Ned Butler, the manager of the Keystones, had a condition brought about by
exhaustion of the nervous system. It had gone haywire dealing with James
Kennison day in and day out.
    Ned
had begun to itch during spring training. Then, three weeks ago on opening day
after the Keystones had been trounced by the Detroit Tigers 9-0, he collapsed
with a skin rash the likes of which the townspeople of Harmony had never seen.
Per doctor's orders, Ned wasn't supposed to become excited, be exposed to undue
or sudden transitions from heat to cold, exercise excessively, breathe impure
air, or wear improper clothing.
    In
short, he was confined indefinitely to a sickroom while Mrs. Butler painted
glycerine on him to alleviate his itching.
    Ned
Butler was the tenth manager the Keystones had had in as many years. Her father
had been in Ned's way from the moment Ned stepped off the train to the moment
he dropped flat on his keister after that Detroit game. Daddy could be a tad
anxious when things didn't go well. And they weren't. The Keystones had lost
twelve of the last twelve games they'd played this season.
    Her
father existed in a constant state of irritation that was getting harder and
harder to live with. Camille had considered growing and selling potted plants,
decorating flower containers to go with them. She would earn only a modest
amount, but it would be enough to allow her to pay for a room at the
boardinghouse and to gain a bit of independence. Not to mention distance from
her father's volatile moods.
    "Bad
fielding!" Contempt sparked her father's words as he wielded a feather
duster. "It was a lot more than bad fielding. Charlie Delahanty and Specs
Ryan slammed into each other chasing a fly ball in the fifth inning." He
vigorously brushed off the case beside him, then took out the dangerous-looking
knives it housed and swished the duster over the shelves. "Doc Nash
overthrowing to first base in the seventh." White feathers scattered in
the air as if chickens were taking a dust bath. "And that bonehead play at
home plate with Cub LaRoque and the wild pitch in the ninth."
    Camille
had watched the game from the stands. And no matter her father's reasoning, all
the fielding in the world wouldn't have allowed the Keystones to catch up to
the Cleveland Blue's six un earned runs. Because the Keystones couldn't
hit worth a darn, either.
    "Well,
the season's still young," Dr. Teeter remarked, teeth filling his
optimistic grin. "The Keystones could be in the pennant race."
    Her
father continued to dust an area that hadn't needed dusting in the first place.
"I promised Harmony a winning team this year. And I'm a man of my word.
We'll get there if I have to manage the team for the entire season
myself."
    Camille
fervently hoped that wasn't going to happen. She'd brought him his lunch today
because he had to close the store an hour early to get to Municipal Field on
time for this afternoon's game. There, she knew he would alternately stand and
sit and pace and yell and throw down his hat and pick it up, only to throw it
down again. On a good day, her father had a short fuse. On a bad day—which had
been all the days since Ned had been confined to his bed—he was as sour as a
crabapple.
    Thinking
the touchy subject had been dropped, she took another step. She hadn't put her
shoe heel down when Dr. Teeter added, "Although it would have been a lot
surer bet"—she froze and